Charcoal Rain

Charcoal Rain

The rain poured steadily, blurring the world beyond my windshield. With traffic stalled and nowhere to go, my thoughts slipped into a memory—one shaped by thunder, charcoal, and the heat of a shared moment. The hum of idling engines faded as my mind wandered. I was no longer in my car—I was back beneath the tree, rain cascading like a curtain around us.

He traced charcoal across my skin, each stroke a silent vow. The storm watched as we surrendered to something primal, something sacred.

I clung to the rough bark, my breath shallow, my body painted in streaks of ash and longing. He pressed close, his warmth anchoring me against the storm. His hands explored with reverence and hunger, and though the mosquitoes swarmed, I barely noticed. I was too consumed by the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing that mattered.

His voice was low, gravelly, threading through the rain like a secret meant only for me. I whispered back, my words trembling with desire and anticipation.

I asked him to love me wildly.

He paused, his breath catching, as the beast of the storm let loose. 

Fat and heavy raindrops fell— like nature herself was blessing our union.

Lightning split the sky, thunder rolled, and he met my gaze with a promise. The rain soaked us both, mingling with the heat between us. I felt the tension in him, the restraint, the reverence. And then, with a look that said everything, he gave in.

I surrendered to the rhythm of us—his touch, his breath, the way he moved with purpose and care. Words tumbled from my lips, incoherent but true. His hand cradled my neck, guiding me gently, while the other held me steady, drawing me deeper into the storm of sensation.

He brought me to the edge again and again, until I was lost in the waves of pleasure and connection.

I felt his urgency build, his body trembling with the effort to hold back. I opened myself to him, offering everything, and he accepted with grace and fire.

His final release was quiet, reverent—a soft moan, a whispered vow, a touch that lingered like the rain on my skin. 

As the traffic began to move, I lingered in the echo of that storm. 

Later, I’d revisit it—alone, perhaps—but never lonely. Some memories are gifts we unwrap again and again.